


Déjà Vu

by ant5b



Category: Darkwing Duck (Cartoon 1991), Darkwing Duck (Cartoon 2018), DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Father-Daughter Relationship, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, SHUSH Shenanigans, Temporary Amnesia, blink and you'll miss them DW cameos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 14:36:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20409391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ant5b/pseuds/ant5b
Summary: Drake Mallard wakes up with no memory of the last two years of his life.





	Déjà Vu

Drake can’t remember the last time he was in this much pain. As a former stuntman, that’s saying something. 

His body aches in ways in ways it hasn’t since he stopped suffering schoolyard bullies, not that he could ever forget the phantom sensation of brutal fists. His head pounds with the very distinct pain of a head injury, which he’s all too familiar with. But this is a pain unlike any he’s felt before, so intense his vision nearly whites out when he tries to open his eyes. His skull feels as though it’s cracking down the middle, and the splitting pain only worsens, 

The room he’s in is dimly lit, but even that little stimulus proves trying. His vision blurs for several moments, until the pain in his head lessens to a dull roar. He assumes they’re filming a night scene, but when he manages a squint he can make out what looks like a lab setup. There are silver medical tools arranged on a cart beside him and shiny operating tables along the walls. Looming over him is a long, thin device like a surgical light, only it has a screen attached to its hinged arm. 

Sensations other than pain begin to filter into his consciousness, and he realizes first that he’s cold. He’s laying flat on his back on one of the metal tables, and when he tries to raise a hand to his aching forehead he finds himself restrained, his wrists and ankles strapped to the table beneath him. 

He doesn’t remember any scene calling for a hokey mad scientist’s lab, but maybe he missed something in the latest script revision. 

“Hello?” Drake says, or at least thinks he does. He realizes next that his ears are ringing, and while he knows that his beak moved, he could barely hear the sound of his own voice. “I think I need a little help,” he attempts to say around a tongue that feels like cotton. He doesn’t understand why he’s alone; where’s Director Boorswan, where’s the camera crew? Where’s the onsite doctor for that matter? 

He hears a sound that the ringing in his ears renders indistinguishable, as though it’s coming from a great distance. While he doesn’t understand it, it steadily grows in volume until he’s almost positive that it’s a voice. His hunch proves correct when a stranger’s face fills his vision, with a shock of red hair that seems impossibly bright in his swimming vision. 

The stranger, tall and barrel-chested, doesn’t look away from Drake for an instant, his eyes wide with terror and brimming with tears. Drake doesn’t know him, but the sight of him puts Drake at ease despite the miasma of pain he’s still inhabiting. He sees the man’s beak moving as he continues to talk, but only catches every fourth word over the uninterrupted ringing in his ears. 

“...out...DW...hear...DW?”

Drake is too weak to turn his head but he feels the man undo the heavy restraints around his wrists, then his ankles. Even when freed, Drake’s limbs weigh heavily on the table and he doesn’t have the energy to move.

The small part of him that remains coherent wonders what even happened to reduce him to this state, and is terrified of the answer. 

The man’s movements, methodical up to now, falter. His hands are shaking, and Drake surmises that he’s no paramedic even before he leans over Drake and cradles his cheek in a warm palm, carding his fingers through Drake’s feathers. His beak is still moving, and his expression is devastating in its intensity. The intimacy of the gesture shocks him out of his indolent state, and like a drowning man yanked back to the surface, the world rushes up to meet him with dizzying force. 

“DW, can you hear me?” the man is saying. “Are you hurt?” _ _

There’s movement behind the stranger. Drake can just barely manage to lift his head, and what he sees confuses him almost more than his agonizing awakening did. Men and women in black suits are flooding into the room carrying guns and large cases. 

“They’re just agents. They helped me find you,” the man says. He turns to shout over his shoulder. “Hey, I need a doctor over here or something!” 

The room spins violently in Drake’s eyes, and he drops his head back onto the frigid metal table. 

“You’re gonna be fine,” the man is saying, “I promise, DW, you’re safe now.”

Exhaustion and pain are crashing down around Drake’s ears, and he can barely keep his eyes open, much less focus on the stranger’s face. His vision begins to tunnel. 

_ “Drake,” _ the man says at last, voice breaking. It’s a devastating sound, and Drake’s gaze snaps back to him almost of its own volition. He doesn’t understand his immediate reaction to the stranger’s pain, but even as his vision darkens he knows that he wants answers. 

Drake musters the energy to speak, and finds his voice weak and roughened by disuse. “Who are you?” he asks. 

The last thing he sees before he loses consciousness is the confusion on the stranger’s face giving way to dawning horror. 

  
  


When Drake opens his eyes he finds himself in a brightly lit room. 

He blinks hard for a few moments as his vision adjusts, relieved to find that the blinding pain in his head has dulled to a low throb. Unlike before, his other senses return swiftly. The smell of antiseptic, the steady beeping of a nearby heart monitor, the cotton-like taste in his mouth that comes from being unconscious for a long period of time; it’s almost overwhelming. He hadn’t the wherewithal to realize how muted everything was when he awoke in the dark laboratory, either due to pain or the more sinister possibility that he was drugged. 

Now he’s laying on a bed in what can only be a hospital room. The walls are lilac in color and there are large screens instead of windows that rotate between images of tranquil forests and endless flower fields. 

When Drake looks down he finds thick white bandages around his wrists, where the restraints used to be. He imagines that there are similar bandages around his ankles. 

“I’m surprised you’re awake, Mr. Mallard.” 

Drake startles, which his sore  _ everything  _ doesn’t appreciate. Standing to the right of his hospital bed, almost directly in his blind spot, is a tall hen in a stark white lab coat, her dark hair pulled into a bun. She meets his perplexed gaze shrewdly behind small round glasses. 

“There was enough morphine in your system to knock out a horse. But then you’ve always had a high tolerance,” she continues, tapping lightly on the tablet in her hands. 

“Who…” Drake says, his voice rasping against a painfully dry throat. 

The doctor, or at least that’s what he hopes she is, produces a cup of water and a pitcher from the table beside him. She hands him the cup, which he accepts gratefully. Though Drake wants to down the water in one go, he forces himself to take slow sips. The doctor’s focus returns to whatever is on her tablet, allowing him to take his time. 

“Who are you?” he asks once he’s finished the water. Though his voice is still weak, he finds it significantly easier to speak. “Where am I?’

“Dr. Sara Bellum,” the hen replies, sparing him a brief glance as she plucks the empty cup from his hands. “And you’re in the medical wing of S.H.U.S.H. Central Command.”

“Okay,” Drake says slowly, if it were possible, feeling more lost than before. “And what’s that?”

“Classified.”

“Hey, you’re awake.”

The man who found him enters the room. 

It’s difficult to explain the onrush of relief that floods Drake at the sight of him. He’s a stranger, albeit a handsome one, sporting a smile that’s worn at the edges. He practically flops into the lone chair beside the bed, close enough for Drake to reach out and touch him if he wanted to. The man’s red hair is messy under the baseball hat and his clothes look rumpled and slept in.

Drake remembers that this man was crying when he found him. 

“I thought you were ordered to a minimum of ten hours bed rest,” Dr. Bellum says, side-eyeing the man. 

“It was more of a suggestion,” he replies, barely glancing away from Drake. He hasn’t stopped smiling, but some inexplicable intuition tells Drake that it becomes genuine when it's directed at him. “How’re you feeling?” the man asks. 

Drake has to clear his throat a few times before he can speak. “F-fine,” he says. He tries to sit up, uncomfortable with the idea of this man thinking he’s sicker or weaker than he is. Nevermind the state that the stranger found him in, delirious and half-dead. But his limbs are shakier than he expected, and his arms won’t fully support him. 

The man rises, placing a steadying hand between Drake’s shoulder blades. He helps guide Drake into a seated position without doing all the work, only pulling away to adjust the pillows accordingly. Careful of his aching body, Drake sighs as he slowly leans back. The stranger retakes his seat, smiling when Drake is able to prop himself up against the pillows and it lights up his entire face, gentling the lines of exhaustion around his eyes. 

Drake hardly understands it, but the sight of this stranger fills him with a sense of ease that he has no reasoning behind. He felt it before, in the cold, dark room with the restraints and his head splitting open from so much pain. It’s happening again now. The nervousness he feels, finding himself in yet another unfamiliar place, with a stranger giving cryptic answers to his questions, is dulled just by his presence. 

Drake smiles back at him, though he isn’t sure why. 

“Who are you?” he asks again. 

The man’s smile falls like Drake slapped it off his face.

Guilt floods him with enough force to make his breath catch. Drake struggles against the urge to apologize and confusion as to why he feels he should. This man  _ is  _ a stranger to him, after all. 

“I guess they weren’t able to fix things, huh?” the man says, rallying quickly. Drake is certain he isn’t imagining the flash of grief in his eyes. 

“Brains aren’t computers,” Dr. Bellum butts in acerbically, “you can’t reupload files and ‘fix’ them. They’re complex and delicate and strange.”

They look at Drake at the same time, and discomfort prickles the back of his neck at being the sudden center of attention. 

“Mr. Mallard,” Dr. Bellum begins, “what’s the last thing you remember?”

The man leans forward, as if in anticipation. 

“Um,” Drake scrambles for what to say, searching his memory. Everything feels distant and out of focus like happened a long time ago. “I was in my trailer. We were getting ready to film my first scene with Megavolt.”

The man falls back in his seat, looking stunned. He doesn’t take his wide eyes off Drake’s face. 

Dr. Bellum scowls and punches something into her tablet. 

Drake is struck with the feeling that he’s failed a test for a class he can’t remember signing up for. “What’s going on?” he demands. There’s a pit opening in his gut, and he feels his abdomen tumble in, his lungs and heart following it into the yawning abyss. 

The man tears his gaze away from Drake to look at Dr. Bellum. Dr. Bellum looks back at him. After a prolonged staring contest, he shakes his head. 

“You were in an accident,” Dr. Bellum says eventually. “We believe you have temporary amnesia.”

“You believe I have temporary _ amnesia _?” Drake repeats incredulously. 

“Oh no, we know you have amnesia,” Dr. Bellum replies immediately. “It’s the temporary part we’re unsure of.”

“I…” Drake trails off with no idea what to say. What _ can _he say? He swallows tightly, curling and uncurling his fingers. “Do you...do you know how much time I’m missing?” he asks the man, rather than Dr. Bellum. He doesn’t allow himself to think about why. 

The man grimaces, looking as lost as Drake feels. He rubs the back of his neck and doesn’t look Drake in the eye when he quietly replies, “Two years.”

Drake’s breath leaves him in a rush, and he’s left feeling hollow. _ Two years. _Who is he now? What happened to the movie? His life? How did he go from stuntman, to landing the role of a lifetime, to then being the sort of man who wakes up in a mad scientist’s lab and receives treatment in clandestine locations? 

“How did this even happen?” he asks numbly. 

The man opens his beak, looking like he’s about to answer, when Dr. Bellum stops him with a raised hand. Her other hand is pressed to her ear, where Drake realizes she must have a hidden earpiece. 

“That’s classified,” she tells Drake. Over his affronted sputtering, she says to the man, “Your presence is required at the entrance. Agent 22 just arrived.”

The man frowns, straightening in his seat. “I’m not leaving,” he declares. 

Dr. Bellum is unamused. “Agent 22 didn’t arrive alone,” she stresses. 

Whatever she’s trying to say, it clearly takes a moment for him to understand the connotation. When it clicks he nearly jumps with how abruptly he stands up, pushing his chair back at least a foot. His face is ashen, Drake notes with worry. 

“Tell them I’m on my way,” he says in a rush. He clearly makes to leave, but hesitates over Drake’s confused expression. “I’ll be right back,” he says, and his smile lessens the tension in the air. 

For lack of a response, Drake just nods. 

He ducks out of the room, leaving Drake alone with Dr. Bellum. 

“So,” he says. “Agents, huh? Was_ — _am I a spy?”

Dr. Bellum’s poking angrily at her tablet again, and she glares at him out of the corner of her eye. That feels familiar too, like the man’s smile, but nowhere near as nice. 

“That guy,” Drake says, looking down at his hands. There’s a scar on his thumb that wasn’t there two years ago. “Who is he?”

He doesn’t know if Dr. Bellum would’ve answered his question this time because there’s a commotion outside his hospital room. He hears running footsteps and several voices bark some version of, “HEY! This is a restricted area!”

A child responds, their voice fainter than the others like they’re being led further away. 

“You have to let me see him! He’s my _ dad _ , you can’t do this! Just let me see him! _ Please!” _

They sound distraught. More than that, they sound devastated and angry; they sound like they’re in tears. 

Before Drake knows what he’s doing he’s started climbing out of bed, nevermind how his knees immediately begin to shake, still too weak to support his weight. His heart is roaring, and his body screams at him to move, to follow their sounds of obvious distress. He doesn’t understand what he’s feeling, or why, but he feels compelled to...comfort the child? See for himself that they’re safe? 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Dr. Bellum snaps. Drake freezes, and she manhandles him, startlingly gentle, back into bed. “You’re conscious, not healed. You still need time to recover.”

“But_ — _the kid,” he starts to say, stammering. He doesn’t understand his reaction, which hasn’t gone away but changes instead . Now grief and guilt pool in the center of his chest, weighing him down against the bed. 

Dr. Bellum looks at the door, a pinched look to her face that it takes him a moment to recognize as remorse. “You’re not the only one who’s lost something tonight,” is all she says. 

  
  


When Drake wakes up for a third time, he suspects it’s night. 

There isn’t much about his surroundings that lend credence to that idea. The lights in his hospital room are dimmed, but that could just be because he was sleeping. There are no windows, so it’s impossible to tell the time of day regardless. But something innate inside Drake, something new and strange to be added to the growing list of new and strange things, tells him that it is very late indeed. 

A snore tears through the tentative peace of his room, and Drake jumps. The heart monitor he didn’t notice he was still attached to blips sharply in accord, but quickly levels out when he sees who’s in the room with him. 

The man from all the times before, whose name Drake still doesn’t know, is here again. He’s in the same chair as before, slumped forward on the side of the bed with his head pillowed on his folded arms. His broad shoulders rise and fall with every deep breath, broken up by the occasional snore and Drake can see the barest glimpse of his face, blank and relaxed in sleep. 

“He insisted on leaving the EKG on, should your health take an unexpected and highly unlikely dive,” a new voice says in a polished British accent, one that prods at the back of his mind with its familiarity. 

But the voice rises out of the darkness, and unlike the man it immediately puts Drake on the defensive. His body reacts before he can put conscious thought behind it, and he reaches for something at his right side that isn’t there. He feels off-kilter when his hand closes around empty air, and that makes no sense. He’s never carried a weapon of any sort, barring the gas gun prop for the movie. 

Obscured in the shadows of an already dark room is an older duck, tall and with enough muscle mass to give the man beside Drake a run for his money. She coolly raises a brow in observation of his antics. 

“Well,” she says, “it’s good to know you haven’t completely lost yourself.”

“Who are you?” Drake demands, keeping his voice low. “Where am I? And_ — _ were you watching me _ sleep _?”

“Bentina Beakley,” she says, crossing her arms with casual grace. “You may call me Mrs. Beakley. You’re in the medical wing of SHUSH Central Command, in Duckburg. And yes.”

Drake gapes, scrambling for something to say and affronted by her matter-of-fact tone. But a crack appears in her austere expression in the form of a small, wry smile, and he relinquishes the battle with a heavy sigh. He rubs his brow carefully. His headache is nowhere as fierce as before, but now it’s lingering just beneath the surface, a snake in the grass. 

“I don’t suppose you could explain what happened to me,” he mutters sardonically, keeping his voice low to avoid waking the stranger beside him. “Or is that still _ classified _?”

Mrs. Beakley frowns. “It never was. But there are...certain individuals in this organization who believe you need protection on account of your current condition.”

She doesn’t even look at the stranger asleep on the side of his bed, but Drake does. He takes his eyes off her to study the man who insists on a heart monitor Drake doesn’t need and refuses to leave his bedside besides. 

“What happened to me?” Drake asks, turning back to Mrs. Beakley. 

“You were kidnapped,” she replies bluntly. “We searched for you for three days before we discovered Major Synapse was the one responsible. From there it was ridiculously easy to find his secret lab, and you in it.”

Drake is stunned silent for several long moments. 

“Why-why _ me _ ?” he breathes, reaching up to bury his hand in his hair. “I’m just an actor. What could, what I can only assume is a _ supervillain _, want with me?”

Mrs. Beakley laughs, a startled burst of sound. It’s quickly stifled, but she smiles behind the hand she’s raised to her beak. “I’m sorry,” she says, not sounding very sorry at all, “but do you think a clandestine spy organization would go to such lengths to rescue ‘just an actor’?”

Drake opens his beak to retort. Closes it again. Finally, he snaps, “So, what, I’m a _ spy _or something?”

This time Mrs. Beakley does look at the man sleeping on Drake’s bed. “Or something,” she replies. “Major Synapse was experimenting with technology meant to alter a person’s hippocampus when he was dishonorably discharged. He picked his work back up in St. Canard, kidnapping citizens off the street and returning them with entire chunks of their lives missing. You were getting too close, so he kidnapped you and did the same to you so you wouldn’t be a problem anymore.”

Drake’s mouth goes bone dry and his heart beats a rough tattoo under his breastbone. He doesn’t remember any of this, Major Synapse or the three days he spent a captive or anything else in the two years of his life that have been apparently carved out and stolen from him. But Mrs. Beakley’s explanation incites a sense of panic he has no words for, an existential terror of not knowing who he is, what his life has become, everything so alien compared to what he remembers. 

“How do you know all of that?” Drake asks, because it seems like the reasonable next thing. 

Mrs. Beakley smiled thinly. “Because we have Major Synapse locked in one of our holding cells.”

“He’s _here_?” Drake nearly exclaims, remembering last minute to control his volume. “Can he_—_I don’t know, fix me?” 

He feels ridiculous even as he says it, and Dr. Bellum’s words dart through his mind. _ Brains aren’t computers. You can’t reupload files and ‘fix’ them. _

Mrs. Beakley doesn’t respond immediately, and that’s answer enough for Drake. “He insists that the memories either come back on their own, or they don’t,” she still says, all trace of humor erased from her personage like they were never there. 

It’s what he expected, but it feels as though he’s sustained a blow to his solar plexus, the air driven from his lungs. He forces himself to take a rattling breath, and then another. 

“So, what?” he says shakily, “I just have to go about my life, the one I know nothing about, like everything’s fine?”

Mrs. Beakley looks back at him with an expression almost like pity. “That’s what I came to speak to you about. We don’t know how your amnesia might affect your...well, your family.” 

Drake scoffs. “I haven’t spoken to my parents in years.”

“No,” Beakley says, shaking her head minutely, “I’m saying you have a family here, _ now _, Drake. A family you have no memory of.”

He thinks chillingly of the people he’s met, the inexplicable fondness and sense of familiarity he feels for utter strangers. He looks at the man sleeping at his bedside, the baseball hat falling off his head revealing the messy head of red hair beneath. It feels _ right _to have him here, this quiet, gentle person who brings light to every room he’s in, even when he’s sound asleep. 

“Who is he?” Drake asks for the fourth time, but this time he says what he really means. “To me, I mean. Who is he to me?”

“Launchpad McQuack,” Beakley says, finally, _finally _giving him his answer. “Your…” here Mrs. Beakley hesitates. “Your partner.”

Drake’s adrenaline-fueled ire abandons him in a rush, along with his breath, and he sags against the pillows. It’s one thing to suspect, and dare he say _ hope _, but to have it confirmed by another is something entirely different . He hadn’t thought it possible for anything good to come out of this nightmare, but he repeats the words in his head and he can breathe a little easier. 

His _ partner. _

That sense of overwhelming fondness fills him once more, the truth of it evident down to his bones, memory or no. Finding love was never something he imagined for himself, too high-strung, too career-driven, but find him it did in the two year span he cannot recall. 

As he considers Launchpad’s sleep slackened face, he doesn’t stop to think that Mrs. Beakley might have more to tell him and actively decides against doing so. 

  
  
  


Mrs. Beakley vanishes when Drake isn’t paying attention, and he drifts in and out of sleep for a few hours. He still can’t shake the heavy cloak of exhaustion that hangs over him; he assumes it’s a side effect of the apparent _ mindwiping _he went through. 

Launchpad is asleep every time Drake wakes up save the last. 

He hasn’t realized Drake’s awake yet. He’s leaning forward on the bed, propped up on his elbows and while he’s looking at something on his phone his expression is very far away. 

“Hey, Launchpad,” Drake says quietly, trying the name out on his tongue for the first time.

Launchpad startles so badly he drops his phone, hitting Drake’s shin through the blankets. He stares at him, speechless and utterly unmoving, hands still poised in midair. 

Drake’s gut twists savagely when he recognizes what he’s done, the terrible hope he’s likely instilled. 

“Mrs. Beakley told me your name,” he says in a rush and hates himself for it. 

Launchpad’s shoulders drop slowly as the tension that so abruptly suffused him fades in time with his breath. 

“Oh,” he replies, quiet and near inflectionless. He rubs the back of his neck, an awkward smile growing on his face. “So, did she tell you—”

“She told me who you are,” Drake interrupts him, trying to meet his eyes. _ His partner. _The fluttering in his rib cage makes him want to take Launchpad’s hand in his own and link their fingers together. But despite what his body is telling him to do, Launchpad is still technically a stranger to him. 

“She also told me what happened to me,” he tacks on, glancing away. His gaze lands on Launchpad’s phone, the screen still illuminated with a photo. Eager to avoid the subject of the kidnapping he apparently suffered and cannot remember, he looks a little closer at Launchpad’s phone. 

The photo is of Launchpad and a young, red-headed girl at the beach. She’s grinning wide at the camera while Launchpad is buried up to his neck in sand and very obviously asleep. 

“Is that your daughter?” Drake asks when his gut swoops at the sight of the girl. It’s not unlike what he experiences when he looks at Launchpad, except now he’s left feeling caught off guard and bereft, like he’s forgotten something terribly, _ awfully _important and should know better. 

Launchpad barks a sharp laugh that makes Drake jump. His smile, because Launchpad is always forcing himself to smile around Drake, is something small and tragic. He picks up the phone, the photo vanishing from view. Drake feels a pang he doesn’t understand. 

“I wish,” Launchpad replies wryly, but there’s a heaviness to his tone belying some deeper truth. 

Suspicion settles over Drake where wariness might once have reigned, and his mind churns with the implications of Launchpad’s words. When he speaks it’s thought his voice has been taken over by another, and he feels more like a detective than an actor when he says, “Why? Is there something wrong with her home life?” 

“No,” Launchpad says at once, voice fervent and hoarse, “God, no. She has the best dad in the world.” 

It’s strange to feel relief over the life of a stranger, but no less strange than the last day has been. He sags a little into his pillows, running a hand agitatedly through his hair, and wonders when his _ feelings _ will leave him less confused. 

Launchpad continues to stare at Drake in the aftermath of his outburst, a fist pressed up to his beak. It should feel uncomfortable, being the target such an intense gaze but Drake just looks back at him as the silence between them continues to stretch, like a rubber band pulled taut. 

“I was so afraid I’d never see you again,” Launchpad croaks. 

Drake flinches. “I’m sorry that I’m...well, that I’m not all here.”

Launchpad laughs again, but it’s more a sob than anything else. “Don’t _ apologize.” _

“But I am sorry,” Drake insists. He gives into the urge that’s dogged him since Mrs. Beakley confirmed everything he felt to be true from the moment he woke in Major Synapse’s lab. Reaching out, he tentatively trails his fingers over the knuckles of Launchpad’s hand that still rests atop the blankets. 

“I may not remember you, but my heart does,” he blurts in classic Drake Mallard fashion. He can feel Launchpad begin to stiffen under his hand, and he presses on, “What I mean is that the way I feel about you now is the same way I felt about you when I had my memories. It’s why I trust you; I wouldn’t be this calm in a secret spy base otherwise.”

“How _ did _you feel about me?” Launchpad asks, his voice pitched like it’s a joke, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s curled the hand Drake isn’t holding into a trembling fist. 

“Well, I loved you,” Drake says, “I _ do _love you.” 

And he knows it to be true in that innate way he knows other common sense things; the sky is blue, his name is Drake Mallard, he loves Launchpad McQuack. No memory required to recognize what his heart is already telling him. 

Launchpad’s chair screeches against the floor when he throws himself to his feet. He looks stricken, hands shaking at his sides. 

“Launchpad, what—” Drake starts to say. 

“I should let you rest,” Launchpad steamrolls over him, nearly yelling. “I’ll, um, I’ll see you later.”

“_ Launchpad _,” he exclaims, panic thrumming at the base of his throat. 

Before Drake can even start to get out of bed, his partner runs out of the room—runs away from _ him _—without a backward glance. 

  
  


Dr. Bellum keeps him under observation for the better part of a week, and Drake doesn’t mind as much as he thought he would. 

He just wants the gaping hole inside him filled, that missing piece that seems so small in comparison to the rest of his life but feels doubly important. That missing piece makes him a different person than he was two years ago, and he wants that person back. The person who knows what the deal is with SHUSH, the actual spy organization he may be part of. The one who knows Mrs. Beakley and Dr. Bellum, and who knows who else, because the old Drake never really had friends but here, _ now _ , he not only has friends but _ family _. 

He wants to be the person who _ knows _Launchpad, the one who fell in love with him, and would know what to do now that Launchpad is avoiding him. 

They tell Drake close to nothing about the last two years of his life in the hopes that his memories will come back on their own, uninfluenced by whatever they might tell him. All he knows definitively is that the Darkwing Duck movie never happened (but he doesn’t know why) and Launchpad is his partner (who ran from him and he doesn’t know _ why _). 

Drake wants to know who he was. Is. But he isn’t even allowed access to the internet here, and he wants SHUSH’s help too desperately to put up too much of a stink about it. So he endures their physical tests, their MRIs, and sessions with what he swears is a hypnotist, all in the hope that he just wakes up one morning with two years worth of memories slotted right back into place. 

  
  


He can feel the eyes of other agents on him in the halls as he walks to and from Dr. Bellum’s labs, and hears the tailend of their conversations once he passes out of earshot. More than anything it makes him wonder who he was in SHUSH, if he’s worth being gossiped about and having a manhunt sent after him when he gets kidnapped. 

The room they’ve provided him in their super secret headquarters is spartan but better than a hospital room, and it almost comes as a relief after Dr. Bellum’s latest round of tests. There’s a bed and a desk, and a television whose only function is playing DVDs. 

On the second day of tests he’d returned to his room to find a stack of DVDs with every episode of _ Darkwing Duck _ burned onto them, and no idea who to thank. He watches them in the evening, before and after he braves the cold and empty SHUSH cafeteria.

It takes him back to his childhood, sitting with his face inches from the screen in his hat and purple sheet tied around his neck, watching Darkwing take every form of punishment imaginable and still_ get back up, _ feeling just as invincible. 

It takes him back to long days on the set of _ Darkwing: First Darkness, _sitting in his trailer in costume and watching episodes in between takes. “For inspiration,” he’d say, but really to act out all of Jim Starling’s lines, copying his poses with his own bonafide gas gun, getting the cadence of Darkwing’s voice down perfectly and fulfilling his every childhood dream. 

Watching the episodes now in the dark, bare room SHUSH has offered him, he just mouths along to the words and wonders why the sight of Jim Starling makes his palms sweat anxiously. 

While there isn’t a window in his room, there is a screen on the wall that displays a different scenic vista every day and has an automated voice that chirps, “Smile! It’s a beautiful morning!” It makes Drake consider the possibility that the room they’ve given him once functioned as a torture chamber. 

Today it’s a photo of tropical beach, golden sand and sparkling water, and Drake scowls at it when it’s the first thing he sees when he opens his door. The screen is especially bright with all the lights off, though Drake can’t recall _ turning _them off. 

He becomes aware of the presence of another person in the room just before they speak. 

“You know, you should really start locking your door.”

It’s a child’s voice, but unlike the tickle of familiarity he’s experienced with everyone for the last week (save Launchpad) this time it slams into him like a truck. Drake’s heart skips a beat, and the feeling of blunt shock barely fades when he turns to face the intruder. 

There’s a young girl slouched in his desk chair, her arms crossed over her chest, the perfect picture of a sullen youth. It’s too dark to take make out the details of her features, but he can see her wavy hair even with the gloom. 

“You know, breaking into people’s rooms is generally frowned upon,” he replies once he’s capable of speech again. 

The girl scoffs. “It wasn’t even locked! I didn’t break into anything.”

“Would a lock have stopped you?” he asks curiously as he paws for the light switch in the dark. 

“Nope,” she says. Quieter, she adds, “My dad always taught me to carry a lockpick with me.”

Drake finally finds the lightswitch. “Well, I’m not sure how I feel about your dad encouraging criminal activity_ — _ _ hey, _ I know you!”

With the lights on he can finally see the girl clearly. She’s young like he suspected, no older than twelve, with brown feathers and curly red hair. She’s wearing a green sweatshirt and a deer in headlights look. 

“You’re Launchpad’s friend,” Drake goes on, recognizing her from the photo of them at the beach. 

For just a second, the girl’s expression crumples. 

Horror jumps chillingly in Drake’s chest and he scrambles for something to say, wondering what he’s done wrong already.

But the girl locks down her expression, alarmingly quick for someone so young. She’s scowling in the next moment, and roughly wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “It’s worse than I thought,” she mutters as she pushes herself out of his chair. 

“What?” 

“Do you wanna know what you missed? I know they haven’t told you anything,” she retorts bluntly, arms akimbo. She rolls her eyes. “Launchpad said they didn’t want to overwhelm you. I told him he was being dumb.”

“I—yeah. I want to know,” Drake says, startled and breathless. He wants to know who he is more than he’s ever wanted anything, even landing the role as Darkwing Duck. Of course, he remembers that this is a child. “But how are you going to do that?”

“We’re gonna sneak out of here, obviously. Do you still know how to hotwire a car?” 

  
  
  
  


Drake might not remember how to hotwire a car, but his body certainly does, and does so with startling alacrity. 

Stealing out of SHUSH headquarters proves remarkably easy, to the point that Drake wonders why he didn’t do it sooner.The girl (she refuses to tell him her name) tells him to take one of the big, black SUVs out of SHUSH’s ludicrous collection of cars, because the smaller, fast ones, “turn into submarines or helicopters or whatever.” 

He doesn’t know where he’s going, but the girl watches the road and directs him, seemingly with a specific destination in mind. They’re in downtown Duckburg when Drake speaks again, hoping against hope. 

“Do you know where Launchpad’s been all week?”

She frowns, turning away to look out the window. “On patrol,” she says shortly, “he’s had to pick up the slack. Or at least he feels like he has to.” 

The explanation makes as much sense as any other he’s received, in that it doesn’t. But the girl looks upset enough that he doesn’t want to pry no matter how worried he might be. 

“What were you doing there, anyway?” he asks instead, scrutinizing the girl out of the corner of his eye. “At SHUSH.”

“Turn right up ahead,” she replies snipily. “And I was there to visit my dad.”

Drake turns, bringing them within view of the looming towers of the Audubon Bay Bridge. “Is he an agent too?” 

The girl glares at him again. “What’s with all the questions?”

“I’m just curious!” Drake exclaims, raising his hands defensively while never removing them from the steering wheel. “You’re going out of your way to help me, kiddo. Not a lot of people would do that.”

She crosses her arms. “Yeah, well, Launchpad’s been miserable since you went off the deep end.”

Traffic is low, and Drake maneuvers onto the bridge with little difficulty. He moves into the far right lane without thinking much of it. 

“You’re gonna turn right,” the girl says before they’re even halfway across the bridge. 

“I’m making the first right?” Drake repeats to confirm. 

She shakes her head. “When we reach the first tower, turn right.”

Drake’s palms begin to sweat, clammy against the leather of the steering wheel. “Kid, I don’t think I need to tell you that we’re on a bridge. ‘Turn right’ means we’ll be taking a swim.”

“We’ll be fine,” she says firmly. “I promise I’m not sending us to our deaths.”

“Okay, but—”

“Just trust me,” she interrupts him. She stares him down as the first tower nears, no longer antagonistic but beseeching. It feels as though his entire future hinges on his response. 

“I do trust you,” he murmured. “I have no idea why, but I do.”

“Keen gear,” she says brightly, smiling for the first time in their brief acquaintanceship. “Now turn right, and try not to drive us into the bay.”

Drake chuckles nervously, tightening his grip around the steering wheel. “Just tell me when, kiddo.”

She’s pulled her phone out of her pocket, but she doesn’t look at it, letting her thumb hover over the screen. “You see those tall dividers under the tower?” she says. “Turn right there.”

There are indeed concrete dividers beneath the first tower, nearly taller the SUV and very, very sturdy looking. 

Drake takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. When he comes upon the dividers, he turns right. 

Before he even moves the steering wheel, the girl presses down on her phone screen. As the car turns, he watches in awe as the divider splits, creating enough room for the SUV to pass. Once they’ve crossed the divider, he watches in his left mirror as it seals shut behind them. 

Up ahead is the base of the tower, and two massive doors slide open before them just like the divider not seconds before. Drake shuts off the engine once they’re inside, the closing doors plunging them into darkness. But even that doesn’t last long, as a row of vertical lights activate on the right and left walls, and keep going for several hundred feet above them. There’s a series of mechanical whirring noises before then the car, and the platform beneath it, begin to rise. 

Drake turns to the girl with wide eyes. “Please don’t tell me we’re going to a secret hideout inside the tower.”

She grins. “We’re going to a secret hideout inside the tower.”

The lift docks, and Drake doesn’t stop gaping as he stumbles out of the SUV. The sheer size of the space astounds him. The vaulted ceilings hang at least fifty feet over his head, and the long, rectangular windows are at least half that in size. There are raised platforms laden with computer screens and technology he doesn’t recognize, and there’s a firing range against the far wall. 

“This is incredible,” Drake breathes as he spins in a circle, taking everything in. 

“Does it feel familiar?” the girl asks as she walks out from behind the SUV. 

“Should it?” he replies distractedly. All he can feel in that moment is awe as he takes in a secret hideout the likes of which could’ve been plucked from his very imagination. 

“Let’s look around some more,” she says, businesslike, and takes Drake’s hand to lead him along. 

“Who built this place?” he wonders as the girl directs him to one of the raised platforms. 

“Just a couple of fanboys,” she responds glibly. 

There is a large screen with a tableau of buttons and levers beneath it, and a handful of desks each with electronics in various states of disassembly atop them. The last desk just has papers stacked in some semblance of order. 

The girl leads him past all of this, going so far as to push him when he hangs around in front of what looks a lot like a dismantled freeze ray. At the opposite end of the platform is a tall, domed cylindrical object covered by a drop cloth. She stops him just in front of it, raising her hands dramatically. 

“What’s under here will make you remember everything,” she declares, stepping backward until she’s beside the object. She grips the drop cloth with both hands. “Feast your eyes on _ this!” _

She yanks the cloth down in a theatrical flutter. 

Drake gasps in delight at the surprise that awaited him. In a domed, glass case is his Darkwing Duck costume, perfectly preserved. It’s in the same condition as the last time he wore it and it’s almost a relief to see it again, something so familiar in a world that has become uniquely alien to him. 

“So…” the girl says pointedly, “remember anything yet?”

Drake smiles as gently as he can when he looks back down at her. “Sorry, kiddo. No dice.”

But her expression curdles, and she doesn’t just look aghast but _ furious _. 

“No,” she says, “no, that should’ve worked. You wore that when you fought—” 

She shoves past him to attack the uneven stacks of papers behind him. Rifling through them wildly, she makes a mess on the desks as she carelessly shoves them around. “There has to be something here that proves that you’re—” 

“Hey, kid, calm down it’s okay,” Drake tries to soothe her, tentatively reaching out to place his hand on her shoulder. 

She shakes him off roughly. “No, you don’t _ get _ it, it’s _ not _ okay. This is the farthest thing from okay!” Throwing a thick file to the ground, it explodes in a shower of loose paper. She lets out a wordless cry of frustration. “And of course there’s nothing here! Just-just wait, I’ll find—there’s gotta be _ something _—” 

Drake bends down to pick up a colorful piece of folded paper that catches his attention amidst the sea of plain white. 

He’s vaguely aware of the girl running around on the platform, creating chaos, as he stares down at the card and wonders why it’s arrested his attention so. It’s clearly handmade and a child’s creation at that, crafted out of blue construction paper and decorated liberally with hockey stickers and multicolored paper flowers. _ HAPPY FATHER’S DAY _is spelled out in puffy stickers.

He opens the card. A plain white piece of paper has been glued inside, as well as another smattering of stickers. There’s a message written out in a child’s hand. 

_ Happy Father’s Day again! _

_ I was just gonna buy you a card but LP said making one would be nicer. I’m not really good at making stuff so I hope this is ok. Did you know this is our first father’s day? I thought that was cool. Cause even though we knew each other during the last one you hadn’t adopted me yet so that doesn’t count. _

_ I guess I wanted to say thank you for being my dad and not being a total loser all the time. You’re still a nerd but like a cool one who beats up bad guys and is totally ok with me accidentally breaking that ugly vase you had by the front door. I was practicing for the championship, which we won!!! so you can’t be mad! _

_ Love, _

_ G _—

“Gosalyn,” Drake breathes, like a hundred pound weight has been lifted from his chest. 

His daughter is still running herself ragged and tearing apart his R&D area in the process. “Just you wait,” she’s saying, crawling under a desk to drag out a box of random junk he stuffed in there, “you’ll remember everything in no time. You’ll remember who you are, and what this place is, and—” 

“Gosalyn,” Drake says again, his voice breaking, “Gosalyn, sweetheart.”

She lets go of the box with a huff and sits back on her heels. “What?” she demands. 

Drake falls to his knees beside Gosalyn and gathers her up in his arms. 

After a long, frozen moment, her hands wrap around his back and cling tentatively to the back of his shirt. Her voice warbles up brokenly in what little space there is between them. “Dad?” 

“I’m here, Gos,” he murmurs against her hair. “You did it, kiddo.”

She gives a wordless, muffled cry against his chest and grabs big handfuls of his shirt. She trembles in his arms, her small frame wracked by the force of her hiccuping sobs. 

“I-I thought you would n-never remember me,” she says miserably, “it was like you were dead but _ not _ ‘cause you were _ right there _but you would look at me like you didn’t know who I was and-and—” 

Drake rubs her back, blinking back the burn of tears himself. “Hey, hey, sweetheart. Munchkin. Moonpie.”

Gosalyn’s laugh verges on a sob, and the sound cracks Drake’s heart in half. “I’m getting snot all over your shirt for that,” she warbles, without any of her customary cheek. 

“I’ll hug you anyway, my disgusting snotty child,” he retorts, wiping away the tears on her blotchy face. 

She puts up with this treatment for a handful of seconds, a new record. But then she brings her own hand to her face, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her palm. 

“What made you remember?” she asks quietly. “Was it the costume?”

Drake’s laugh is more an incredulous exhale than anything else. “The cos—no, of course not, Gos. It was your card.” He reaches behind him for where he dropped it. “Remember, the one you made me last Father’s Day?”

Gosalyn looks at the card like it’s a bug she found under her shoe. “My ugly card made you remember? But-but I brought you here because you were supposed to remember that you’re Darkwing Duck! I thought-I thought it would be easier to remember here than at home.”

He cups her face between his palms. “Gosalyn, _ nothing _ will ever be more important to me than being your father. I couldn’t be Darkwing Duck without you. I couldn’t even be _ Drake Mallard _ without you. Of course your card brought my memories back.”

She buries her face in his chest again to hide her tears, but this time she does so smiling. “It’s still an ugly card.”

“There’s room for improvement,” Drake allows. “We can scrapbook together, as practice for next time.”

They sit quietly, surrounded by disarray, for several long moments. Gosalyn’s breathing evens out, and her hold on Drake is no longer quite as desperate. Drake surreptitiously wipes away a few tears of his own, and puts Gosalyn’s card up on one of the desks where he can find it again. 

Their peace is disrupted by a ear-splitting beeping from the nearest computer, as well as Gosalyn’s phone. They’re startled so badly that Drake again goes to grab a gas gun he doesn’t have, and Gosalyn almost hits her head on the underside of his beak. 

“Geez, alright,” Drake gripes as he forces himself to his feet, helping Gosalyn up along the way. She’s quiet and weary now after releasing a week’s worth of pent-up stress, and Drake holds her close to his side with an arm around her shoulders. 

He slaps at the computer console until the beeping stops and the call comes through. Beakley’s visage fills the screen, and she takes in their respective exhausted and annoyed expressions with a deadpan stare, not looking surprised to find him in the Tower. 

“I take it then that your memories have returned,” she says, a statement of fact rather than a question. 

Drake allows the former super spy a small smile. “Got it in one, Mrs. B.”

“And here I’d hoped that nickname would stay forgotten,” she muttered. “Anyway, I didn’t call to chat. Is Launchpad with you?”

“No,” Drake responds, and he feels the icy fist of dread curl in his gut. “I haven’t seen him all week. Gos, you said he’d been patrolling right?”

Looking more awake now at the mention of Launchpad, Gosalyn nods. “Yeah, but I don’t know where. I’ve barely seen him all week, too. Uncle Scrooge was letting me stay at the mansion.”

“We believe he took the Thunderquack,” Beakley says, worry evident in the furrow of her brow, “but we’ve been unable to track him.”

“You might not be able to find him, but we can,” Drake realizes, hunching over the console and typing quickly. “We can disable your SHUSH trackers, but not our private ones. It’s a closed frequency between our vehicles and our computers. So we should be able to find the Thunderquack and if we find the Thunderquack—” 

“We find Launchpad,” Beakley finishes. 

Drake’s frantic typing pays off when the computer pings, and a corner of the massive screen displays a small map and GPS location.

“There he is,” Drake murmurs, “he’s in St. Canard, over by the docks. I can get there on the Ratcatcher in ten minutes—” 

“_ We _ can get there,” Gosalyn cuts him off, expression steely. 

“Gos—” 

She shakes her head sharply. “The last time you went somewhere alone you got kidnapped. If I’m with you, you won’t let yourself get kidnapped.”

All fight leaves Drake in a rush. He reaches out and cards his fingers through Gosalyn’s long bangs, smoothing them back. “You got that right, kiddo,” he murmurs. 

She nods decisively. “Let’s get going then. Don’t forget your helmet!”

  
  


They find the Thunderquack sitting dark and silent in a more rundown area of the docks. The warehouses here have plentiful graffiti and the cars parked nearby have had their windows smashed. Weeds are the only other living thing besides them, sprouting out of cracks in the cement every which way they look. It’s the last place Launchpad should be. 

Drake approaches the Thunderquack carefully, keeping Gosalyn close at his back. They don’t have keys for the jet (they’d just be asking to get themselves locked out). Instead there’s a keypad and a hand scanner with very few imprint profiles uploaded to it. He inputs the code (the date they adopted Gosalyn) and puts his hand up to the scanner. 

Drake waits with bated breath as the hatch begins to open, rising with a low, mechanical hiss. 

He hears Launchpad’s snores before he sees him and Drake very nearly collapses in relief, sagging against one of the wings. Beside him, Gosalyn laughs.

Launchpad is sprawled in the pilot’s seat, snoring at decibels he only reaches when he’s well and truly exhausted. The inner console is dark, and he’s illuminated solely by cold moonlight. His hat is missing and his jacket’s torn and burned in places, and most of the right side of his face is just a spectacular black eye. As ever, he’s one of the most beautiful things Drake has ever seen. 

He climbs into the Thunderquack, Gosalyn not a second behind. He closes the hatch behind them, and moves to sit beside Launchpad. This close, Drake can see the lines of fatigue running deep on Launchpad’s face, even in sleep, even in the dark. His knuckles are scabbed over and already purpled with bruising. 

Drake feel his heart break all over again. 

He reaches over and activates the Thunderquack’s dark console. The cockpit is set aglow by the soft purple lights, softing the planes of Launchpad’s face. 

Drake turns to Gosalyn, awash in purple light. She’s looking Launchpad over with a scared, pinched look on her face, one that Drake hopes he never has to see again. 

“He’s gonna be fine, Gos,” Drake murmurs, rubbing her arm. “He’s just been worried, like you, and working _ way _too hard. What do you say if after this, we give him a break? Get Uncle Scrooge to pay for a vacation for all three of us.”

Gosalyn’s answering smile is shaky, but genuine for all that. “We’ll have to trick him into forking over the cash. I’m in.”

Drake shares one more comforting smile with Gosalyn before moving closer to Launchpad. He gently squeezes the pilot’s arm, nudging him gently. As Drake feared, Launchpad awakes in a flurry of movement. He shoves Drake back with one hand and makes a wild, blind swing with his left arm that probably could’ve knocked Drake out cold had it connected. 

“Launchpad,” Drake says quickly, gentling his voice. Yelling would only send him into more of a panic. “Launchpad, listen to my voice. You’re in the Thunderquack. It’s Drake and Gosalyn, we’re here with you right now.” 

Launchpad breathes heavily, his eyes wide and dazed in the glow off the console. “D-Drake?” he says hoarsely. 

“Yeah,” Drake responds, sighing in relief, “I’m here, Big Guy.”

Launchpad swallows thickly, his breathing shaky as he reaches out to touch Drake’s cheek. He hesitates at the last moment, his hand hovering in the air before he begins to pull it back. 

“Who are you?” Launchpad asks, and there are tears in his eyes. 

Drake moves to catch Launchpad’s hand before he completely pulls away, gripping it tightly between his own. 

“I’m Drake Mallard,” he begins, blinking back tears of his own, “I’m Gosalyn’s father. I’m your partner. And I’m the man who loves you.”

“You love me?” Launchpad’s voice breaks halfway through. 

“Didn’t I say as much before you ran off?” Drake replies wryly, drawing Launchpad’s hand closer. 

“I didn’t—I mean, I didn’t want to-to influence you or put pressure on you,” Launchpad stammers, “I mean, geez, Drake, you didn’t even know my _ name _.” 

Drake squeezes Launchpad’s hand. “Losing my memory made me realize how much you meant to me. With everything else out of the way, all I felt was love. And I was done ignoring it.” 

Launchpad gapes for a long moment, looking gobsmacked. “I..well…” he swallows, eyes glassy. “I-I love you too, Drake. So much.”

Drake leans forward, pressing his beak to Launchpad’s forehead in a lingering kiss. 

“Well, it’s about time!” Gosalyn announces, jumping in between them. She nearly knocks Drake over, and Launchpad bursts into laughter. 

“Gos! I thought your dad said you were here,” Launchpad beams, and she hops into his waiting arms. “Sorry I haven’t been around, kiddo. You doing alright?”

“Well I broke Dad out of SHUSH headquarters,” Gosalyn chirps. 

Launchpad chuckles. “So, more than alright?”

She plucks at his burned jacket, taking in his bruised face with a look of trepidation. “Are you okay to fly us home?” she asks. 

“You kidding?” Launchpad replies brightly, “I could fly this baby with both my eyes closed and _ both _my hands tied behind my back!”

Drake is quick to cut in. “Uh, how about we use the autopilot? I'd rather not test that theory.” 

But he reaches out and takes Launchpad’s free hand in his own, his grip gentle around Launchpad’s bruised knuckles. As the Thunderquack takes off, Drake drops a kiss onto the back of his hand. 


End file.
